Blue Dresses
by funnierinpylean
Summary: What really happened, after Hannibal revealed himself to Abigail. Fix-it fic. Abigail finds herself a prisoner in Hannibal's house. Just how willing a prisoner is she? Eventually Abigail/Hannibal. Will post weekly updates.
1. Blue Dresses and Four-Poster Beds

"I'm so sorry I couldn't protect you in this life," said Hannibal, slowly caressing her face. Abigail stared into his eyes, black and endless.

She breathed in deeply, and closed her eyes. His hand was still stroking her cheek, lovingly, sadly. A single tear threatened to fall from her eyelashes, and she shook it away, angry that her body was betraying her this way. She was _not_ going to cry. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction. She took a step back and looked at Hannibal again - he was a wall of darkness against the light of the window. His eyes glittered, and his lips puckered, considering her. She didn't bother looking around the kitchen for something to defend herself with, or wondering how far she could make it before he caught her. It was over. She was at his mercy; her fate had been signed over the second she stepped into this kitchen - probably well before.

"If you're going to do it, do it." Abigail was surprised at how steady her voice was. There was something in her which still told her to trust this man, despite what she knew (what she had always known, deep down) about Hannibal. Despite what she knew was about to happen to her.

"I think..." Hannibal trailed off, still staring heavily at her. "My dear girl," he said, a note of resignation in his voice. He sighed, and stepped close to her again, backing her up against the countertop. His thigh pressed into her hip, and she took a long, shuddering breath. She couldn't move even if she wanted to - his leg was like iron against hers. His hands were on her face, and he pulled her close, almost as if he was going to kiss her (or break her neck). The tears fell freely now, and Abigail bit her lip to suppress the sob that was welling up inside of her.

When it came, it took her almost by surprise. He flipped her around, hugging her to his chest, and wrapped his long arm around her throat, squeezing harder than she thought possible, impossibly hard. She choked and sputtered and felt the edges of her vision dim, and her hands involuntarily clutched at his arm. His chin rested atop her head, his other hand gently stroking her hair. He shushed her, as if he was putting a child to sleep. She could feel her throat spasm, as her lungs tried to draw in air where there was none - she felt herself start to go limp. Her mind was blissfully blank as she fell into unconsciousness.

* * *

The first thing she became aware of was a dull throbbing pain in her left ear. It ached in a way that was completely new; sharp but not sharp. She swallowed uncomfortably. It felt like she was lying on something soft - a mattress. When she opened her eyes, she saw that she was in a four-poster bed, and the sheer forest green curtains were drawn. Someone (she knew who) had lovingly put her to bed, the way one might an invalid.

She pulled her hand up to the left side of her face, and felt - nothing. A gaping nothing where there should have been something. A scream fought its way up her throat and died before it could make itself known. She groped at her head, feeling at the raw hole which stung when she touched it. When she sat up, her hair fell forward, no longer tucked neatly behind her ear. She shoved her fist in her mouth and began to cry, sobbing in a way that she hadn't done since she realized her parents were dead. Drool and snot pooled around her fist, but she didn't care. She snuffled and sobbed and tried so, so hard to keep quiet; she didn't want to antagonize him any further.

She cried until she couldn't cry anymore. Feeling wrung out, she dried her face on the pristine sheets, and parted the curtains of her bed, looking around. Her room was small, but well furnished - there was a small desk and chair in the corner, a bookshelf full of books, a comfy looking armchair in the corner, a solid oak dresser. There was an attached bathroom, she noted approvingly, complete with a full bath. There was a security camera nestled in the corner of the ceiling, aimed directly at her bed. A card rested on the small bedside table - she opened it with trembling fingers.

_Abigail -_

_I shall expect you for dinner, whenever you wake up. Please change into something appropriate - your clothes are quite soiled, sadly._

_Come, darling. I've made us a wonderful meal._

_\- H.L._

A shudder worked its way up her spine, as she wondered what (who?) he expected her to eat tonight. This was a test, she knew. If she went along with it, played the adoring daughter, she'd have a better chance of surviving whatever game Hannibal was playing with her.

She stood up and gingerly walked over to the dresser, which she soon realized was empty of all clothes. She looked around the room, puzzled - what did he expect her to wear? - and saw the dress hanging from the upper rail of her bed. It was an old-fashioned affair, deep blue in color, with red accents. She changed, and tried to fix her hair, combing it through with her fingers. She did her best to pick the dried flecks of blood out of her hair. She put on the pair of Mary Janes that he had left her by the door, and slipped out of the room, tip-toeing through the dark hallway and down the winding staircase.

Hannibal was at the stove, his back turned to her, sautéeing something that smelled delicious. She hovered by the doorway, not sure whether to announce her presence or wait for him to notice her; fortunately, Hannibal solved that problem for her.

"Abigail," said Hannibal, turning around and smiling. He tossed whatever was in the saucepan pan. There was warmth in his voice. "So good of you to come down."

Abigail looked down at her feet, staring at the absurdly childish shoes he had picked out for her. She said nothing; she didn't trust herself to speak. Hannibal put the saucepan back on the flame, and slowly approached her, as if he was coming up on a wild animal. He was wearing a contour-fitting white shirt and a blue waistcoat - his muscles were plainly visible through his clothing. Abigail couldn't help but think of how powerful he looked - how much stronger than her he was. His hands came to rest at her shoulders, and he looked down on her kindly.

"You look beautiful, my dear," he said, smiling at her gently.

"Th... thanks," Abigail stammered.

He hooked a finger underneath her chin and forced her to look up at him. She did, reluctantly. She could see the crow's feet gather on his eyes as they crinkled with a smile. "Come." He slipped a hand down to her lower back, and gestured to the kitchen table. "Foie de veau grand-mère. Calves liver, sauteed in balsamic vinegar, parsley, and garlic." She took a deep breath and sat herself at the table. Hannibal served her with a flourish, and even in the midst of her terror, she could appreciate the beauty of the presentation before her; a small tower of sliced meat decorated with a sprig of fresh parsley, with a sweet vinegar reduction drizzled on top. "Bon appetit, Abigail," said Hannibal, taking the seat next to her. She murmured a thank you and tried to smile at him.

Abigail remembered her last meal at Hannibal's house - she had chattered away, telling him about some inside joke that she and Alana had made up, and about the latest ridiculous thing Will's puppy did. Hannibal had laughed in all the right places and had peppered her with questions about life at the hospital, about her plans for college, about what she wanted for the future. It had been companionable, and she had felt loved, cared for.

Tonight, they ate in silence.

"Who is it that we are eating?" The question was out before Abigail knew it. She stared at Hannibal in horror, shocked that she would give away what she was thinking so easily. How would he make her suffer for her impudence? He regarded her with a long look, giving away nothing of what he thought.

He cocked his head slightly to the side. "A salesman from Toledo, Ohio," he said, calmly. "Here on a business trip. He was terribly rude to his waitress."

"Oh," she said, fighting to keep her voice calm.

He swirled his wine and took a deliberate sip. She took another bite, and looked down at her plate. Salesman or no, tonight's dinner was exceptionally tasty. She wondered if she should ask for seconds, if Hannibal would like that or not. If this was to be her last meal, she might as well enjoy herself, she thought, viciously.

Slowly, her fear fell by the wayside - she felt an absurd sense of power thrum through her. She was willingly eating someone who had been a living, breathing person just a few days ago. Abigail felt untethered from reality, she felt free in a way she had never felt before.

"Hannibal?" she asked, proud of how steady her voice was.

"Yes, dear?" he asked, in between bites of salesman.

"What are you going to do with me?"

"Oh Abigail," he said, sighing contentedly. "Whatever I wish. Do you understand?" he asked, reaching out to pet her hair.

God help me, thought Abigail. "I do."


	2. Questioning

**Author's notes:** This chapter has references to prior non-con (not between Abigail and Hannibal.) There's also some minor suicide ideation. It's also kind of creepy, imo. Hannibal is poking in places he has no right to poke. I have no idea what he's playing at, suffice to say, it probably isn't good.

* * *

Abigail helped Hannibal clear the dishes and started to wash them, looking for something to do. She felt Hannibal's eyes on her as she worked, boring into the back of her head. It was still nerve-wracking to be this close to him, to not know what he was going to do next. She worked faster, wondering if she would be excused from his presence if he deemed her performance acceptable enough. Probably not, she thought. She wouldn't get that lucky.

She felt a hand on her hip and a solid body press up against her back; she couldn't suppress her shiver as Hannibal approached her. Her body was one taut line of tension, she gripped the counter's edge so hard her knuckles turned white. The hand that wasn't holding her by the waist gently pushed her hair out of the way, giving Hannibal easier access to her wound. She tilted her head slightly to the side, giving him permission to examine her. He tutted softly, and swept her hair across her shoulders, bending down to give her bare neck a kiss. Abigail swallowed as he pulled her closer, his arm snaking around her midsection.

"You've bled more. We shall have to clean you up," he said, holding her close.

"Why..." Abigail trailed off, not able to find the words to ask what she wanted to know.

"Yes?"

"Never mind," she said, quietly.

"Never be afraid to ask questions, dear one. You can ask anything you like from me."

She swallowed. "My ear. Hannibal, why... why did you take my ear?"

"Because I wanted it, Abigail," he answered. He took a step back from her, letting her free from his grip. She let out a breath she didn't know she was holding in, and stood there a few more moments still, too scared to look and see what Hannibal was doing. She felt her wound sting, and gasped as Hannibal cleaned her with a cotton ball soaked in some kind of disinfectant. "You're starting a new life, and all beginnings involve birthing pains of some kind. This is my gift to you," he said, as he worked.

"What did you do with the ear? Has anyone found it?"

He chuckled. "Yes, fair to say they have. The FBI currently believes that you are dead. Convenient, no?"

"They won't be looking for me anymore," said Abigail, relieved, despite herself.

"That's right. The investigation into your involvement with your father's crimes has been closed," he said, sounding satisfied with himself. He began to bandage the wound.

"Thank you," she whispered. She found that she meant it.

"You're very welcome."

To her great surprise, she slept soundly that night.

* * *

The days passed in a blur. Abigail spent most of her time locked in her bedroom, with nothing but books to keep her company. On nights when Hannibal had company, she was to remain in her room, but on nights when Hannibal was alone, she was permitted to come down and entertain him.

They were enjoyable evenings, despite how cautious she (still) was around him. They had recovered something of their old dynamic - she found she could still make him smile and laugh, and strove to do so as much as possible. She asked questions about everything from how his patients were doing to what the weather was like in Paris, and he was happy to oblige her, mostly. She noticed that he was unusually tight-lipped on the subject of Will Graham - all he would tell her was that he was sick, and had been sent to a hospital for further supervision. She couldn't help but suspect there was more to the story than she was being told.

Sometimes they would do nothing more than sit in the drawing room and listen to symphonies on his crackling grammophone. She liked those evenings the best; curled up in an armchair with one of Hannibal's old medical textbooks, watching Hannibal sway to the music with his eyes closed. He was at his best when he was enraptured by music - on nights like these, Abigail almost forgot to be scared of him. A man so easily captured by something beautiful couldn't be all bad, she reasoned. The trick, she thought, was keeping him as interested in her as he was in his precious record collection.

So she threw herself into self-improvement; she developed projects intended to transform herself into a more cultured, more sophisticated person. She tried to develop an appreciation for the fine arts, in a not-so-subtle attempt at flattery by imitation. Hannibal knew what she was playing at, of course, and smirked at her every time he caught her fumbling over the sentences in a French novel, or reading about famous operas. However, his vanity was tickled by the effort, or so she suspected. He never seemed anything but pleased by her efforts, never raised his voice towards her, and she took that as a positive sign.

She wore whatever he brought her, even though it made her feel as if she was a doll being made to play at dress up. Everything she owned was currently locked in some evidence locker at the FBI, so Hannibal had to buy her a whole new wardrobe, including undergarments. He had surprising taste, and for some reason, knew her sizing perfectly. He even bought her a series of chiffon scarves which she gratefully tied around her neck every evening. (She knew he liked it when she wore her neck bare - he liked to look at her scar - and appreciated that he gave her the freedom to cover it up when she wanted to.)

Things were going so smoothly, in fact, that there had to be some kind of a catch, thought Abigail. A cannibalistic serial killer could not be content to keep a girl in his house like a treasured pet - he wanted something from her, and she had to figure out what it was, fast, or she'd end up on his dinner plate, same as his other victims.

She found out one night, a month into her stay at Hannibal's house.

It was a quiet evening, and the pair had nestled into armchairs seated close to a crackling fire, Abigail reading a novel, Hannibal sitting with his eyes closed. The question was so quiet Abigail didn't hear it at first.

"Sorry, what?"

"I said, tell me about your father."

Abigail closed her book and sat up, looking at Hannibal with surprise. "What do you want to know about him?"

"What he was like, as a man."

"He was sick," said Abigail, flatly.

"Come now, dear. Let's not be reductive. What was your relationship with him like?"

Her mind flickered on images of a dead deer, of carved meat, of a chair, of rope. She took a deep, shuddering breath.

"We were close," she said, her voice small.

"How close? Did you feel free to talk to him about your life, the way you do with me?"

Abigail barked out a laugh, and shook her head. "We weren't close that way."

"I see."

"He loved me, in a strange way. He worshipped me, in fact." Her voice sounded like it was coming from some place far away.

"And you must have loved him," said Hannibal.

Abigail tilted her head, considering. After a pause, she answered him. "I loved him, yes. But I was more scared of him than anything else."

"What did he do to make you feel so scared, Abigail?"

She shook her head, almost involuntarily, as if shaking off bad memories. "Nothing. I just got a weird feeling around him, sometimes."

Hannibal tutted. "Mustn't tell lies, dear. I asked you a question."

She felt an unexpected flash of anger at being prodded so deeply, and stood up. "Yeah? Maybe I don't feel like answering. It's personal." She turned quickly on her heel, and made to march out of the room; his hand grabbed her upper arm and held on with an iron grip.

When he spoke, his voice was deadly soft.

"Careful Abigail. Leaving in the middle of a conversation is a very rude thing to do."

She turned around, her fists clenched. She breathed deeply in and out of her nose. Not good, she thought. Not smart. Don't piss him off.

"I'm... I'm sorry," she muttered, eyes avoiding his face. He lowered the hand that gripped her.

"Now. Tell me what your father did to you that made you so scared of him." His voice was quiet. She could feel his eyes on her, and she felt naked before him.

"He... after he taught me how to butcher a deer, he tried to teach me... other things." She cringed. Hannibal hooked his finger underneath her chin and tilted her face up so that she was looking at him.

"Eyes on me, Abigail."

"He raped me." The answer came unbidden, as if her words were being controlled by someone else. Maybe they were. Her eyes filled with tears, stupid, disobedient tears. She was weak. Uncontrollable. Not good enough to be in this house, not good enough to have her life spared by Hannibal. He should have killed her in Minnesota.

"I suspected as much," he said, wiping away a tear with his thumb. His face was impassive, betraying no emotion of any kind. He almost sounded satisfied to have guessed correctly.

"I've never told anyone."

"I suspected that too," he said.

She continued, her voice monotone. "We were in the cabin when it - it happened. When he was done, he tied me to a chair and left me for an hour or two. And then he came back, and told me how much he wanted to kill me. I begged him not to, but he still came at me with the knife. He cut me on my arms." She showed Hannibal the scars, light white and horizontal. "After that day everyone just assumed I cut myself, I never let them think any differently," she said.

"Talking about this will help you, Abigail," Hannibal said, cupping her face in his palm. "Acknowledgement is the first step to recovery. Now, tell me the rest."

Abigail swallowed and continued. "I screamed and begged him to stop, and then I told him I'd do anything if would let me live."

"My sweet survivor, bargaining for her life," said Hannibal, transfixed. He stroked her face.

"I told him to kill someone else, anyone else, just not me," she whispered, her voice thick with guilt and shame.

"It was your idea, finding the girls," he said, in wonder.

"Yes." She felt exhausted, like she had run several miles. The tears came freely now, falling without abandon.

He pulled her into a hug, and then maneuvered them onto the couch, her curled in his lap, crying, getting the collar of his shirt filthy with tears and snot. He stroked her back, and hushed her, quietly. She felt her world swim before her, and she clutched him harder; he was her anchor and she didn't know if that meant she would drown.

"Shhh, darling. You're having a panic attack," said Hannibal, tucking her head underneath his. She nestled closer, trying to lose herself in his warm, manly scent. She couldn't ever remember feeling so safe. Some distant part of her reminded her to beware, but she ignored it - the comfort she was getting from his body at the moment was too appreciated to waste time being cautious.

She shifted her hips on his thigh, and she felt a strange arousal flash through her body; she subtly shifted her hips again, in order to feel the grinding warmth on her cunt. She felt dizzy. She let out a long, shuddering sigh and rested her head on his shoulder - Hannibal wrapped his long arms around her, and turned his head to kiss her forehead.

"Aren't you glad you answered my question?" he asked her, after her breathing slowed down to a normal pace again.

No, she thought. I would have been happy to let that lie undisturbed for a while longer. "Yes, Hannibal," she answered, obediently. She'd do anything to please him, right now. "Look, I've gotten your shirt all wet," she said, laughing through her tears.

"Never mind that," he murmured, stroking her back.

She reluctantly detangled herself from him, feeling the wetness in between her legs when she moved. She cuddled up next to him on the couch, tucking her legs underneath her. The last thing she wanted to do right now was look at him. She knew she'd blush if he made her look at him.

"I think you've had a long day, Abigail. Perhaps bed would be appropriate."

"Yes, please," she said.

He stood up and held his hand out, she placed hers in his and stood alongside him. They walked slowly up the stairs, and he deposited outside her door with a chaste kiss on her cheek. She heard the chink of the deadbolt locking her into her suite, and she remembered that she was his willing prisoner, not his guest. Definitely not his daughter.

That night, she touched herself, slowly, bringing herself off to thoughts of Hannibal's strong, large hands, his long, sensuous mouth. She cried out when she came, unable to stop herself, and breathed deep and hard afterwards, feeling her heart racing. She tried hard to not think about what it meant. When sleep finally came, it was welcome.


	3. The Basement

Abigail spent the next few weeks in a daze, impatiently waiting for evening to come every night, waiting for her daily session with Hannibal. On the nights that he didn't come for her - company stayed late, or he was out on one of his night-time adventures - she paced her room, frustrated and bored to tears. If he'd only let her out her room, she thought. But she knew better than to ask. The last time she had come close to the topic of her imprisonment, Hannibal had made it known that no aspect of her stay with him was to be under debate, whatsoever. In punishment, he had left her in her room for two whole days straight. There was no way she'd do anything like that again.

She was ripping through the collection of novels he left for her at a stunning pace. It was classic literature, the likes of which she had never read before. Borges, Cervantes, Goethe, Byron, Flaubert - she found that she had an appreciation for these authors, but she was beginning to get sick of the 18th century. She thought about ways she could convince Hannibal to bring her more modern books.

Most of all, she spent her free time thinking about Hannibal, thinking about the ways he touched her, how he'd stroke her hair, or press up his body against hers. Some part of her knew that what Hannibal did to her was very wrong - she knew that Hannibal had no right to pull her down memory lane unwillingly, no right to force her to confront truths she wasn't ready for yet - but the rest of her screamed out loud that she didn't care, that she'd take affection wherever it could be obtained. That rebellious voice protested that getting too close to him was dangerous, that her little crush would place her even more firmly under his control, and she was already in danger enough as it was. She knew she was at his mercy, but she didn't care; she revelled in being his daughter, his ward, his friend, his companion. She belonged to Hannibal, and she wouldn't have it any other way.

Even more unsettling, she knew that he must know the affect he was having on her. He rewarded good behavior (opening up and telling him about the girls she helped kill, telling him about her father) with touch; he punished insolence and a refusal to share with distance. He must know how much she needs his caresses, she thought. And he must know how she thought about him - she was not quiet in bed, despite her efforts to muffle herself - he _must_ have heard her as she brought herself off. Given his extraordinary sense of smell, she reasoned, he could probably even tell when she was aroused - and around him, she was always aroused.

All in all, it was surprisingly easy to think of Hannibal as a man, rather than as a cannibal and a serial killer, as she had so often reminded herself he was, early on in her stay with him. She knew what she ate every night - she knew what was in the parcels he slipped her in the mornings, before he'd go to work - and she didn't care. It seemed less and less important as time progressed, as her world shrunk to fit inside the space of Hannibal's house.

So it was a bit of a surprise when Hannibal decided, one day, to acquaint her with the second world he operated in, the one of shadows and cruelty.

He had asked that she wear a sturdy pair of jeans and a t-shirt, rather than the dresses he usually preferred she wear in the evening. She was puzzled, but went along with his instructions, braiding her hair as usual. He bid her eat quickly. After dinner, he led her to the behemoth of a basement door (not the drawing room, as per usual), and punched a code into a keypad next to the handle. There was a beep, and Hannibal wrenched the gigantic door open, gesturing at her to follow him as he disappeared into the basement.

It was like entering another world; dingy and dark where the upstairs was clean and bright. The drip-drop sound of a leaky pipe echoed eerily in the distance. She followed his quiet footsteps, eyes wide. He pulled a string and a dull lightbulb hanging from a chain flickered on. Hannibal turned and looked at her, his smile terrifying. Light played off his cheekbones as the lightbulb swang back and forth; he looked like a ghoul, an angel of death, come to collect his dues.

"Come, Abigail," he said, reaching out for her hand, which she placed in his. He walked backwards, as if leading her to a dance. She looked at what he was leading her towards, and saw a naked man chained to the wall, hung by his arms, shackles around his feet. There was plastic tarp on the floor beneath him - to collect the blood, thought Abiail, with a grim fascination. "What do you see, my darling?"

Abigail couldn't take her eyes off of the man. He seemed half-conscious, his head lolling from side to side. "I see one of your victims."

Hannibal laughed. "Almost right, not quite." He continued, like he was presenting a new book or an opera she hadn't heard yet. "This is Jacob Olster. He works as a janitor at a local chemical plant. Father of three, divorced twice. He's also a convicted sex offender. Raped his daughter, I believe the court said."

She looked at Hannibal sharply, and considered him, for a moment. She knew what he was trying to do. "You want me to kill him," she said, her voice flat.

"I want you to have fun with him," he said, smiling at her, a ghoulish grin that didn't reach his eyes. "God knows he deserves it." He turned to a table, where an assortment of knives was laid out for her. He gripped a hunting knife by the blade and held it out to her. She took it, slowly.

"Hannibal, I don't want to kill him," she said, her voice wavering.

"You don't have to, my sweet. I will end his life, if you want me to. But I do want you to play with him first." His tone was final, his eyes glittered in the dim light.

She took a deep breath, and took the knife from him. She turned to face the man, who at this point was fully awake, looking cautious and alert. He eyed the knife in her hand with trepidation. Abigail stepped forward, raising the knife, and stopped about a foot away from him, unable to go any further.

"I can't," she said, her voice breaking.

"You can," murmured Hannibal into her ear. His wide arms encircled her, and she felt his body press up against her back. He reached out from behind her and took her hand in his, steadily guiding the knife to Olster's body. She felt his lips on her ear as they made a long, shallow cut diagonally across Olster's chest. Blood oozed out of his body, and she watched in fascination as it dripped down onto the tarp.

She laughed. The sound was hollow. "This is a pretty unconventional therapy technique, Dr. Lecter."

"I'm an unconventional man. Now, your turn," he said, dropping his hands to her waist, leaving the hand that held the knife free.

She raised her knife, her arm trembling, slightly. Cautiously, she pressed the side of the blade into Olster's chest, an inch above the previous cut. She watched as blood pooled around the blade. She dragged the knife down, slowly slicing open more skin. The blood dripped down and made little splashing noises as it hit the tarp. She tilted her head a little, examining her handiwork. Olster was breathing heavily, his eyes shut. He was obviously under strict instruction to not make a noise. She reminded herself that he was a rapist, and raised her knife again.

This time, she cut him on the face, on his cheekbones. She slashed open the underside of his upper arm, opened up the back of his palm. She avoided main arteries - it's not that she wanted him to live, it's that she wanted him alive to feel what she was doing. Suddenly inspired, she grabbed his ballsack. Olster whimpered, and started to cry.

"I don't think you deserve these," she said. She didn't recognize the sound of her own voice, it sounded like it belonged to someone older than her, someone much more experienced than her.

Testicles, as it turns out, are easier to slice off than you'd think.

Olster screamed in pain, and the sound rattled her to her bones; she was horrified at what she had done and in awe of what she held in her hand at the same time. She opened her hand, the bloody organs fell to the floor. She stepped forward, and slit Olster's throat, severing his vocal cords so that he stopped screaming, once and for all. Blood spurted out at her, and she dimly felt it hit her face, her neck, her arms. He gurgled a few times as blood poured out of his wound, and then his head fell forward - he was dead.

She turned around, and stared at Hannibal. His expression hadn't changed, he gazed at her, his face grave. It was impossible to tell what he was thinking. She held out the hand that carried the bloody knife, all the while keeping his gaze. She felt strangely calm, at one with her surroundings and herself. Her heart beat steadily, she could hear the blood rushing through her body. The riot of anxiety and nerves that she usually dealt with on a daily basis had fallen away, she was stripped bare and left with the purest of elements - herself, the knife, and Hannibal.

He took the knife from her hands, and placed it on the table. They looked at each other a moment longer.

"Come," she said, surprising herself with her assertiveness. Again, she had a hard time recognizing her own voice. "Let's go upstairs." He nodded, and followed her out of the basement, into the kitchen. She stood by the door as he poured her a finger or two of scotch. She accepted it gratefully and swallowed it all in one go. The liquor burned in her stomach.

"We should get you cleaned up," he said, rustling in a drawer, bringing out a black plastic garbage bag. "Put your clothes in this." She stripped without a moment's hesitation, throwing away the soiled clothing that had only been worn once. She stood in her underwear, still staring at Hannibal. He retrieved a terrycloth bathrobe that was hanging off a hook and held it out to her. He must have been prepared for this, she thought. She ignored the bathrobe and instead pulled him in for a hug, snaking her arms around his neck. A moment later, Hannibal brought his arms around her too, and they stood there for a while embracing, neither saying a word.

She stepped away from him and looked him in the eye. "Thank you," she said.

"You are welcome, Abigail," said Hannibal, seriously, stroking her face. "Now. Go take a shower, remember to scrub hard, and I will go deal with our friend Mr. Olster."

"Okay," she said, taking the bathrobe from his hands. She smiled at him one last time before going upstairs to shower.

The hot water felt cleansing. The pressure in her bath was good, she felt the stream of water sting her skin as she turned her face into the shower. She killed tonight. This wasn't like what she did to the girls - she wasn't under duress, she had no father staring over her shoulder, telling her what to do. Hannibal had given her a choice, after all, and she made it of her own free will. This wasn't even like Nick Boyle - no matter what Hannibal said, she killed him in self-defense. Tonight, she murdered Jacob Olster in cold blood. She killed him just to see what would happen if she slit open his neck.

She turned the water off and toweled herself dry, she wrapped the soft bathrobe around her body, and started to dry her hair. She emerged from the bathroom just as Hannibal was coming up the stairs, her breath caught in her throat when she looked at him, at the rolled up sleeves which gave away what he had just been doing.

"I don't want to sleep alone tonight," she said. The scotch must have loosened her tongue.

"You don't have to," said Hannibal. "Come." She took his hand and they went to his master bedroom. He gave her a t-shirt to wear and turned his back while she changed into it, and she got under his covers, thick and warm. He changed in front of her, pulling on a pair of pyjama pants, not caring a whit what she saw. She stared at him appreciatively, noting his muscled torso and thick arms. She felt a stirring of excitement somewhere low in her belly, and she noticed she was getting wet. He turned off the lights and joined her in bed, arranging her so that her back was against his naked chest, his free arm encircling her. Her feet entwined with his, and she smiled against his sheets, feeling fuzzy and happy and almost dizzy with arousal.

She was asleep within minutes.


	4. Deserve

A/N: Ratcheted up the rating a little. Enjoy!

* * *

The first thing Abigail felt when she awoke was the weight of Hannibal's arm on her waist, his hand tucked under her torso, his body stretched out against the length of hers. She turned her face into the pillow and smiled. She felt a jolt of electricity when she felt him move, pulling her close and pressing his pelvis into her. Something was poking into her, something hard – it was him, she realized, as adrenaline rushed through her. She felt a prickle of fear. There was no going back now.

"Are you awake_, ma cherie_?" asked Hannibal, voice soft.

"Yes," she whispered, eyes wide open.

"Good," he said. The hand that was tucked around her dipped under her shirt and kneaded her stomach – it was such a surprisingly intimate feeling, to have someone touch her there. Involuntarily, her ab muscles contracted; her body was not used to such contact.

Hannibal chuckled and moved his hand a little lower. She trembled, in fear or anticipation, she didn't know. "You've been a very, very good girl, Abigail," said Hannibal, into her hair.

"Th… thank you, Hannibal," she gasped, feeling his broad fingers touch her.

"Good girls deserve special things, do they not?" muttered Hannibal, his fingers sinking lower, past her belly button, gripping the skin he felt there, possessively.

"Please," she groaned. Her body bucked, and he held her tightly.

"Patience," said Hannibal, sounding amused. "Patience, my darling. Good girls are patient."

"Yes, Hannibal," she said automatically. She'd do anything right now, she realized, in a haze. She'd do whatever he asked.

"Now," he said, fingers moving lower, playing the with the hair he found above her cunt. "I want to know something, Abigail," he said, his fingers running through the hair.

"What is it, Hannibal?" She tried to hold her body still but found she could not stop trembling.

"Are you mine?" he asked, his voice deadly soft. "Are you mine completely?"

"Yes," said Abigail. Her _yes_ echoed throughout her mind; all conscious thought was erased and replaced with the sound of that word.

"Hmmm," said Hannibal, fingers dipping lower. He played with the lips of her cunt, refusing to spread her lips with his fingers. "If you're mine, then I get to make some rules, don't I?" he asked.

"Yes, Hannibal," she replied, obediently.

"No touching yourself," he said. "No more midnight games in your room." He suddenly gripped her by her pubic hair and tugged, slightly. "This? This belongs to me, now."

"Yes, Hannibal," she moaned. She'd stop, she'd stop forever, if he'd only just touch her where she needed to be touched…

"One more thing," he continued, oblivious to her torment. "This is going to be difficult, I'm afraid," he said, his lips against her hair. "Let's see how silent you can be while I play with what is mine," he said, impishly.

She bit her lip to prevent a moan from slipping out. She blinked out tears, straining with the effort of keeping quiet. She wanted to be as good as possible for Hannibal.

Hannibal threw his leg over her and covered her with his body, pushing her onto her back, so she lay parallel to him. He was suspended above her, propped up on his knees, giving her room to buck and squirm. He brushed her hair off her neck with his free hand and bit down onto her neck. Try as she might, she couldn't prevent a small gasp from escaping – thankfully, it didn't seem as if Hannibal noticed. He bit and sucked and it hurt. She knew what he was doing, she realized as her stomach turned; he was marking his territory. He released her neck and turned her head so he was looking straight into her eyes. She bit her lip once again, bucking with need, throwing her head back and exposing her throat to his greedy eyes.

His fingers finally, _finally_, dipped into her cunt. He ran his finger pads along the inside of her lips, getting them soaked with her juice. Slowly, ever so slowly, he brought his fingers up so he could inspect them. He made her look at them, covered in thick juice; he put his index finger in his mouth, tasting her as if he was testing a particularly delicious dish he had made. He smiled, and presented to her his middle finger; she immediately took what was offered, sucking and swallowing. She tasted tangy, like a tart tangerine. Abigail wondered how she had never thought to taste herself before.

He drew his hand down her body and back to her cunt, this time exploring her folds further. She felt a streak of pleasure rush through her as his hand grazed her clit, she arched her back and closed her eyes, her mouth frozen in a silent scream. She heard him laughing, but she hardly registered it, so focused was she on feeling that rush again.

Tentatively, he breached her with two fingers. Her walls spasmed around his hand, and she gasped out loud. He slowly brought his hand in and out of her, pushing into her as deep as his hand would go, pushing her hips back into the mattress each time he filled himself to the hilt. Small jolts of pleasure weaved around her mind, and she felt her body tingle. Suddenly, he drew his hand out of her and brushed two fingers over her clitoris – white hot heat flooded her limbs as she cried out. Hannibal started to circle her clitoris with his fingers, causing her to shiver and buck. With his free arm tucked under her, he lifted her to a half sitting position. Abigail was hardly conscious of the change, she was limp in his arms. Hannibal pulled her towards his mouth, his lips hovering over hers, breathing her in.

It came out of nowhere. She was full and over-flowing – she could think no more. Pleasure exploded in every limb. Her vision whited out and she heard herself scream, as if she was far away. Hannibal kept touching her as she fought and screamed her way through her orgasm, steadily rubbing her with his fingers, taking her through 'til she came back down, gasping and crying.

"Naughty girl," said Hannibal, as he continued to rub her over-sensitive clitoris. Her jittery legs came together automatically, in an effort to get Hannibal to stop touching her, but he forced them open, and continued to rub at her like nothing had happened. "You disobeyed me."

"I'm sorry, Hannibal," she said, still gasping for air. He was right; she had screamed out loud. She hadn't meant to do that.

"You get a pass, this time," said Hannibal, dipping his fingers into her, exploring her cunt. "Next time, you won't be so lucky," he said, withdrawing his fingers and cleaning them on her shirt. He pushed himself off the bed and whipped off his trousers, revealing the hard, thick length which hung between his legs. Abigail stared, in fascination. Hannibal rooted through his underwear drawer and pulled on a pair of briefs, and Abigail fell back on the bed. Her breathing was almost back to normal, but her pulse was still elevated, her limbs loose. She felt like a ragdoll.

Hannibal got dressed as Abigail stared at the ceiling in silence. He cleared his throat, and Abigail immediately tensed up. Was he angry? Did he want her to talk? Was she doing something wrong?

"Thank you," she said, timidly, not sure if she was saying the right thing

Hannibal paused in the middle of tying his tie, and looked over at Abigail in surprise. "No need to thank me, darling," he said, resuming his work. "You deserve good things."

"All the same; thanks," she said, a little more boldly this time.

"Well," said Hannibal, laughing a little. "You're welcome, then."

* * *

Hannibal left for work, kissing Abigail on the forehead and touching her cheek fondly. She sat on the living room couch and watched him leave through the window. When he was out of sight, she turned forward and sat with her hands on her lap, blankly staring at the wall ahead of her. She was wearing the blue dress he had bought her for their first night; she somehow thought he might like it, if she wore it today. However, she was not wearing her customary chiffon scarf today. She knew, without him having to spell it out, that she was not to cover her neck again. Not now that her throat bore new marks of ownership.

She went to the record player, on impulse putting on The Flying Dutchman, her favorite opera. She went back to the couch, only rising to turn the record over when side A had finished. She sat until the music ended, and then she put another record on, a Tchaikovsky symphony. She touched her face, surprised to find a tear rolling down her cheek – she wondered where that had come from. Hurriedly, she wiped it away, wiping her hands on her dress.

She rose and walked to the front door, as the music swelled. Her heart beat just a little bit faster as she put her hand on the doorknob. Nothing happened, her hand remained still. Turn the doorknob, she instructed herself sternly – still, nothing happened.

Abigail remembered what Hannibal had said to her, and she immediately let go of the doorknob, as if it were red hot. She stared at the doorknob as her eyes filled with tears. Slowly, she sunk to the floor, crouching against the door, pulling at her hair, as her eyes spilled over, as she sobbed heaving sobs. Hannibal's words echoed through her, louder and louder – she couldn't get away from them, no matter what she did.

_You deserve good things._


End file.
